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I was 16, and the thought of being forced to mention God as part of the pledge of allegiance was too hypocritical an act for me to play along with. Each day of high school began with this mundane recitation, as most people just stood with their hand jutting from a hip, the other dangling across their chest as they counted out the seconds until they could sit back down. They leaned against desks, and talked through it about what party and where it would be, if there would be a keg or a bonfire in the woods. I recited the words, omitting the "under God" part as a sort of half-baked protest. I was raised to flaunt my family's ramshackle atheism, as a choice of smug pride. We knew better, was the prevailing logic.

But one day, I could not stand and say any of it. It felt so rote, so hollow, so devoid of choice. There was no law that said I was required to say it. I knew this was my right, a form of free speech. My homeroom teacher was a legendary drinker, a trash-talking re…

small change (exceptions)

There are two buildings that rise up in the distance, when I go towards the hardware store. I imagine a modern-day Rapunzel might live in one of them. The sky is packed with clouds, but a strange one hovers above one of the towers, a lonely mushroom, a cloud fedora, a sore thumb.

There is a store here, Pyaterochka. The name brings to mind a little bird, maybe a sparrow. I used to go to a Pyaterochka that had little birds that flew around inside it, but it actually means "5", taken from the Russian word "pyat". In "little five" people wander the aisles, counting out rubles, with bags of potatoes, maybe a box of wine. I find myself scouring the neighborhood from time to time, looking for a special type of milk for V. It comes in tiny purple boxes, and appears as randomly and sparingly as butterflies. Today, I am in Pyaterochka and there are a few boxes. I check the expiration dates on them. Stores here will sell expired milk and meat without batting an eye.

The line to the register is a clumsy, lurching mess of road workers with tiny bottles of vodka and fat bags of sausages, a pregnant woman chattering on her phone, and old people. I inch forwards, with those purple boxes balanced on my hands. The cashier is fascinating. She has bleached blond hair, pulled up high and tight into a ponytail. There is a brutal red slick of lipstick painted across her face that goes way beyond where her lips end. Her eyes are small, darting at faces, her words sharp and quick. She plunks change down, opens plastic bags with an angry flourish. On her hands, are white leather gloves with the fingers cut off. There is something oddly trash and vaudeville about her. I could see her on the street in the East Village as easily as this backwards corner of the universe. The line slogs along. I wonder if I have small bills with me. Somehow I want to be on her good side. Slapping a thousand ruble bill on the counter when you are buying 150 rubles worth of milk is a major insult to the culture of cashiers here. They hoard small bills like the world will soon unravel into chaos without them. Or, there is a massive shortage of small change. Anything is possible here. Anything.

I arrive, and she stares at me saying nothing. The red lips move, as she says something to herself. The ponytail bounces around, as wisps of broken hair dance behind it. The fingers poking from those white leather gloves have giant nails on them, carefully painted in glittery swirls. I pay with a pair of hundred ruble bills.

Out in the street, I look up at the odd little cloud, the exception. It is still there.